


Kingdom Come

by astudyinrose



Series: Hidden in Silence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crime Scenes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Bliss, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, John Saves Sherlock, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mild Language, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Sexual Content, Sherlock's Violin, Unrequited Love, drug relapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are on their first case since Baskerville: a string of murders, all targeting military doctors who had returned from Afghanistan. John was able to keep himself detached at first-- until one of his mates from the war becomes a victim. Sherlock soon realizes that John is one of the potential targets, and it's a race against the clock to find the murderer before he finds John.  The case pushes them together in an unprecedented way, but the consequences will threaten to rip them apart permanently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to cloakstone69 for being a lovely beta.

  

* * *

They say it's what you make  
I say it's up to fate  
It's woven in my soul  
I need to let you go

Your eyes they shine so bright  
I want to save that light  
I can't escape this now  
Unless you show me how

When you feel my heat  
Look into my eyes  
It's where my demons hide   
It's where my demons hide

-"Demons," Imagine Dragons

* * *

 

Sherlock sat on the couch, hands steepled under his chin, eyes shut. The window was open behind him, and the crisp spring breeze rustled the curtains. John was in the kitchen silently fixing tea. He knew better than to try and engage Sherlock in conversation. Normally, he would be right. Sherlock should be on another plane, examining details and summoning facts from the far corners of his mind, completely unaware of anything else. But this was one of the few times that Sherlock was particularly conscious of the signs of life coming from the other side of the flat. Domestic sounds. Sounds of John.

John silently set down a cup of Earl Grey tea in front of Sherlock before making his way back into the kitchen. Sherlock cracked his eyes open and watched his retreating form. Limp: slightly more pronounced. Forehead wrinkled, biting lip nervously: trying to hide signs of distress.  

Sherlock closed his eyes again. He had left the crime scene that morning with a distinct feeling of unease, but he had dismissed it quickly. _Sentiment is not an advantage. Especially in this case._

It was their first case since Baskerville. Serial killer. All of the victims thus far were doctors who had returned from fighting in Afghanistan in the past few years. Men like John. 

In fact, the victims had all been in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but John hadn’t known any of them personally. Until now.  

When they had walked up to the body, John's face had twisted into a grimace normally reserved for flashbacks of the war zone. He had turned away, limping slightly. Obviously trying to hide his tortured face.

Sherlock had tried to focus on the body. He was processing and categorizing details when something strange had happened. As Sherlock looked down at the victim, seeing John’s hunched form retreating out of the corner of his eye, the body before him had transformed into John’s in his mind. Sherlock's stomach clenched involuntarily at the memory. _Sentiment. Can’t let him notice._

Sherlock sighed, sat up and took a sip from the steaming cup. He closed his eyes again, contemplating. Why would anyone be targeting military doctors? Healers. “Heroes,” if there is such a thing. 

John wandered back into the room, sitting in his chair and starting to drink his tea. He remained taciturn. He still seemed to be slightly peeved at Sherlock for locking him in that lab. 

Sherlock returned to the crime scene in his mind. The calling card was extremely unusual. The murderer had cut a 0.2 cm line around each victim’s left ring finger with a short-blade knife _._ Like a wedding band. Maudlin. Symbolic, obviously. Almost... feminine. Female serial killers were extremely rare, yet so was this kind of cold-blooded execution.  A single shot at point-blank range was an inordinately personal way to kill someone. The murderer had to be filled with rage. 

John shifted a little in his seat, which caused the crime scene to mix with Sherlock’s mindpalace. Without his bidding, the vision of a bloodied, glass-eyed John lying on the street rose before his eyes again. Fear and adrenalin rushed his system.

Sherlock slammed his tea down on the table in frustration that his concentration was so easily broken these days. He could see John wince out of the corner of his eye and faltered slightly. _Idiot. PTSD can be triggered by loud noises._  

Sherlock pretended not to notice, walking over to his violin case at the window. Playing might help him think. It might also soothe John, but he tried to convince himself that would an unintended consequence. Sherlock picked up the violin, placing it against his neck. He drew the bow against the strings in one sustained note, feeling the reverberation and the thrill of a perfectly tuned instrument. He closed his eyes, and started to play.

Through the open window, Sherlock could hear the sounds of people moving, chatting outside.  He smelled the cool air, felt the electric quality of an impending thunderstorm. Behind him, the sound of John’s breathing evened out. He smiled, his back still to John, and lost himself to the music.

 

 

* * *

As the notes filtered through the flat, John’s anxiety started to lift. John closed his eyes and sat back, trying to put thoughts of the crime scene out of his mind. Of Jim, lying there with a bullet through his head. They had both made it through so much overseas... he hadn’t deserved to meet his end this way. Memories of battle-- of men bleeding out and calling for medics, of the overwhelming scent of burning flesh intermingled with smoke-- started to pervade his consciousness for the first time in many months.

John clenched his jaw. He tried to focus on the music, to drive the images away.

This was one of Sherlock’s compositions, and one of John’s favorites. The breathtaking melody distracted him, pulling him out of his memories. He watched the way Sherlock's body moved with the music, and the panic started melting away, slowly. This kind of expression and emotion from Sherlock was rare. Melodies like this, and the way his brilliant eyes illuminated when he was on a case, were the few moments when the true Sherlock showed through. Most people didn’t take the time to notice. They simply dismissed him as a “freak,” and Sherlock did nothing to contradict them. He almost seemed to want people to push him away. 

John sighed. Sherlock. He was an enigma wrapped in a problem encircled by a paradox. That was an understatement. 

That night at the pool, after Moriarty's great game, Sherlock’s eyes had been filled with unadulterated fear when he saw the bomb strapped to John’s chest. The terror was magnetized tenfold right before John grabbed Moriarty, sacrificing himself to save Sherlock. _You rather showed your hand there, Dr. Watson,_ Moriarty had said, sniggering. John hadn't even tried to figure out what that meant.

The way Sherlock had looked at John once the bomb was clear, and he was safe, was the turning point. As John finally relaxed, he had looked up at Sherlock, seeing the utter relief outlining his entire body. That was when _it_ had happened. There was no real term for it, but it was indescribable and palpable. A connection that had never been present before. John had made a joke about it, at the time. But… it was there. Sherlock had beamed at him. Then John had put it out of his mind. 

John had kept dating, of course, but nothing ever seemed to pan out. He always seemed to forget their birthdays, or whether they had a dog. One of them even called Sherlock his boyfriend. “It's heartwarming, really. You would do anything for him,” she said. He protested avidly  as usual, to no avail.

The Irene incident had only confused him further. After her “death,” Sherlock had gone through what seemed like a depressive phase: writing melancholic music, eating even less than before, hardly speaking. John couldn’t help but think that Sherlock was in love with her. And he was heartbroken.

When she had revealed herself, alive, John had been furious. Furious that she had done that to Sherlock, that she had hurt him in any way. She asked him if he was jealous, teasing him, calling them a couple. He responded, with frustration, “In case anyone cares, I’m not _actually_ gay.” She had smirked at him, which had only infuriated him more.

Then there was Dartmoor. Sherlock was in the throes of gas poisoning, his terror gripping him, John had seen the depth of emotion and utmost fear in his eyes. Sherlock had even admitted it: “I've always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from feelings. But you see?” He held up his glass, his hand trembling. “Body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions.”

John had stared at him, trying to pick apart the cryptic language. Sherlock spoke as if experiencing emotions were some interesting observation in an experiment, or a strange phenomenon. It was something alien that simply shouldn’t occur, and having emotions was akin to sickness. When John tried to calm him down, Sherlock had snapped at him.

“Okay, okay, why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend,” John said.

“I don’t have _friends_ ,” Sherlock replied bitterly.

“I wonder why,” John had said, more hurt than he cared to admit. He left in a huff.

Then, the next day, Sherlock had told John that he “meant what he said." He didn’t have “friends,” he “just had one.” His eyes betrayed him: there was definitive sentiment. He was afraid; afraid that John wouldn’t forgive him. And this time, he couldn’t blame the poison for it.

John watched Sherlock, his head resting against his hand. Which is the real him? The cold, machiavellian Sherlock-- the one who responded with bitterness whenever someone accused him of sentiment-- or the one who had basically told John he was the most important person in his life?

   

* * *

As Sherlock finished the piece, his eyes still closed, as a crack of thunder reverberated through the entire flat. Sherlock turned, slowly, to take in John’s hunched form and furrowed forehead.

“That was beautiful, Sherlock,” John said haltingly, trying to compose himself. 

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

“Fine. I’m fine. It was just bloody thunder,” John said dismissively as he tried to take another sip of tea. Cup and saucer rattled. Left hand trembling slightly. 

Sherlock put down his violin. He had all but forgotten about the case, for now. It would have to wait. 

Sherlock turned casually to observe John. He was now sitting in his armchair with his head in his hands, staring at the floor. Sherlock hesitated, then walked over quietly and put his hand on John's shoulder. John looked up.

“That poor bloke,” John said finally, his breathing uneven. “Jim... he... saved so many men. Why? Why would someone do this?” 

Sherlock swallowed. The pain in John’s eyes made it extremely difficult to maintain detachment. _Concentrate on alleviating symptoms._ Eyes wide, breathing shallow and quick. Hyperventilation.He knelt in front of the chair and looked up at John.

“John,” he said softly, “try to breathe.”

John clutched his chest slightly.  “I... it’s like something is compressing my lungs.” He closed his eyes. 

Sherlock hesitated, his mind spinning through possibilities. The quickest and most accessible method of keeping John from having a panic attack was a measure of physical contact from another human being. The most basic form of comfort. Sherlock faltered, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of such an approach. John might mistake its implications. 

John squeezed his eyes shut, seeming to fold into himself as he wheezed. His lips were turning blue and he was clearly not getting enough air. Sherlock's whirling thoughts stopped abruptly. He moved forward involuntarily, surprising himself, and sat on the side of the chair, pulling John toward him in an embrace. John's head rested against Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock rested his chin on the smaller man's head.

Sherlock could feel John's body shuddering beneath him. No attempt to move away, to break free. _Good._  Sherlock closed his eyes. This was the closest they had ever been. _Irrelevant,_ he told himself. Rain started to pelt the windows.

  

* * *

After a few minutes, John's breathing finally started to slow. He looked up at Sherlock, emerging from the waves of panic. As he gazed at Sherlock's face, he saw a note of concern in his eyes, tension in his forehead. John moved his hand up and placed it over Sherlock's, which was still resting on his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” John murmured, still staring into the vivid heterochromatic eyes. The fear that had clenched his stomach moments earlier was fading away.

Sherlock's face changed to relief. “You're welcome,” he said quietly, but made no move to leave. _There it is again_. The look in his eyes was not simply clinical, seeing a problem and solving it. It was almost as if Sherlock was in pain, seeing John like this. The man underneath the affectation of indifference had emerged.

For a few more moments, Sherlock observed John. Then, just as suddenly as it had disappeared, the mask slipped back on. Sherlock dropped his hand, and said dryly, “You're welcome. I am pleased that I was able to be of assistance.”

John looked away. He should have known. Of course, he was just trying to stop John from hyperventilating. _There is nothing else. There never was._  He needed to stop looking for... whatever he thought he saw.

Sherlock stood up, brushing the sleeves of his jacket. “More tea?” He asked brusquely, heading toward the kitchen.

  

* * *

Sherlock was scrutinizing a hair sample under the microscope when his phone pinged. Lestrade.

_Another one. Warehouse district. Hurry._

Sherlock's gaze flicked over to where John was sitting on the couch, absorbed in writing a post for his blog.  In his normal flair for the melodramatic, he was calling the case the “Phantom Ring” murders.

A feeling of protectiveness took hold, and Sherlock felt a small knot in his throat. It wasn't worth the risk to bring him. _I need to focus, solve this quickly, to keep him safe. Not be… distracted._  

Sherlock had stayed with John that night, making sure that he didn't have another attack, until he had finally dropped off on the couch. Sherlock had tucked a quilt around John, then sprung into action. He took John’s laptop and hacked into the British Armed Forces database ( _easy_ ). He did a cursory search on retired army doctors from John's division-- the potential victim profile. There were only three left. One of whom was obviously sleeping on the couch.

Sherlock had closed his eyes, attempting to keep the rising emotions at bay. When it came to John, that exercise had become increasingly difficult. He had glanced over to John, who was slumbering with a slight smile on his face. Sherlock stood and started pacing. The killer was methodically executing every army doctor within a certain radius. It was only a matter of time before he came after John.  

After a few minutes, he had made a decision.  He pulled out his phone, dialing Mycroft.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, brother mine?” Mycroft quipped.

“I don’t have time for pleasantries. John is in danger. I need-- could you put a detail on him, secure a perimeter around Baker Street?” Silence.

He swallowed loudly. “Please,” he said between gritted teeth.

Pause. “This must be serious. You never call me for favours.” 

Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth. “ _Mycroft._ ”

He sighed. “Very well. Consider it done.”

Sherlock hadn’t slept that night, watching over John. And he hadn’t slept since; he couldn't let John out of his sight. He had made excuses for them to stay in the flat for a few days. John seemed slightly perplexed at their lack of cases, but appeared not to suspect anything. 

Now, Sherlock stood up, wandering over to John, who was too focused on his work to look up. “I'm going out. To get milk,” Sherlock said airily, hoping that this was a good cover story.

John started to nod, then looked up immediately. “You're what?” John said, cracking a grin. “You _never_ go to the shop.” 

 _Apparent miscalculation_. “Well, I... thought it was my turn. Just… stay here, will you? Ill be back in a couple of hours.” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat. 

“A couple of _hours_? For milk?” John said incredulously.

"Please, John. Promise me to stay here." Sherlock said fervently, touching his arm then recoiling quickly, cursing himself. He shouldn't initiate physical contact unless strictly necessary.

John looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright." Sherlock hid his relief, turning and walking briskly from the room.

"Some biscuits too, yeah?" John called down after him, but Sherlock pretended not to hear. He quickly grabbed a taxi, rattling off the address as he jumped in. He settled into his brooding posture, contemplating the best way to solve the case immediately.

When he finally arrived at the warehouse, he swept under the crime scene tape, ignoring Donovan's quips about “the freak having finally scared off his favourite pet.”  He walked briskly over to the body. 

The young man, no more than thirty, was sprawled out on the pavement with a look of surprise on his face. The body hadn't been moved postmortem. Obviously lived in central London due to the treading on his shoes. Corner of an ID poking out of pocket: worked at St. Bart’s. Surgeon, trauma center, guessing by his closely cut and immaculately cleaned fingernails. Rigor mortis had set in, but decomposition minimal. Dead… a day at most.

Sherlock scrutinized the body. This was obviously not a random serial killer. The victims were selected for a reason. Blood splatter and body position indicated that he (like the others) had his hands behind his head when he was shot. One gunshot: point blank range, middle of the forehead. The shooter had to have been looking straight into the victim's eyes. _An execution._  

He must have been lured here. A St. Bart’s doctor would have had no reason to be in this area of London. Under what pretense? At gunpoint? No signs of struggle. Possible explanation: the victim knew the murderer. 

There was, as always, an inscribed “ring” around the finger. Sherlock picked up the hand to look closer. Not extremely sharp; tissue torn, ragged cut. Not someone who regularly wields or knows how to sharpen a blade. Little to no serration: possibly an army knife. Postmortem wound; not meant as torture. Symbolic. 

Sherlock held the hand up to his face to smell it. Donovan, who was standing across from him, gave him a disgusted look. He ignored her. Definitely a lingering scent of women’s perfume. The killer was a woman. Expensive designer perfume: most likely a gift. Jilted lover? No. Then she wouldn’t still be wearing the perfume. Sentimental value. _It always comes back to sentiment._

Lestrade, who had been speaking to someone on the phone ten yards away, abruptly hung up. He walked to Sherlock, breaking him from his reverie. “Sherlock… it looks like there’s another one. Killed two days ago, just found. The killer has elevated to a murder a day.”

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, realization dawning on him. One murder a day. And now there was only one possible victim left: John. _Panic._

Without a word, Sherlock turned on his heel and ran from the crime scene, ignoring Lestrade’s shouts. He took a taxi back to Baker Street, yelling at the irritated cabbie to go as fast as possible. He had been gone too long. Far too long. He should never have left John alone. Sherlock pulled out his phone to call him, but John didn’t pick up. 

Cursing, Sherlock texted Mycroft.

 

_Where’s John? -SH_

_Is this a game? That bored?  -MH_  

_Not joking. Where. -SH_

_221B in lockdown, just like you have kept him for days. Hasn’t left. Problem? -MH_

 

Sherlock stowed his phone in his pocket in frustration without responding.  

When the taxi pulled up to Baker Street, Sherlock threw some notes at the cabbie and jumped out of the vehicle before it had completely stopped. He strode up the stairs, two at a time. “John!” he yelled through the apartment. Silence. He called into the kitchen, ran up the stairs to John’s room: empty. He saw John’s Browning on his dresser.  Without hesitation, he picked it up and tucked it into the back of his trousers. He sprinted down the steps two at a time, still calling for John. His eyes examined the entire flat for anything missing or out of place. 

There, on the mantelpiece, propped up by the skull, was a note. Trust John to do something like leave a note. He strode over to the mantel and picked up the paper.

 

_Ridiculously long line at the shop, eh? Or did you have a row with the chip and pin machine?_

_I know I promised. I'm sorry. I had to. I'm meeting the widow of my old mate from Afghanistan, Annie Rosewood, at the lake in the park. She knew Jim._

_Don’t worry._

_-John_

_P.S. My phone died. Had to leave it here._

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. He should have known better than to let John out of his sight, if only for an hour. How had Mycroft’s men missed him?And he didn’t have his phone. Sherlock couldn't warn him.

Sherlock turned around and ran back down the stairs. He bolted towards the park, which was not far. _Annie Rosewood. Why does that name sound familiar?_

He searched within his mind palace, feeling in old nooks and dusty crannies where he held the memories he kept, though he probably should have deleted them long ago. Many of them were involving John. Sherlock tried not to think about that.

With a start, he pulled up the correct memory.

John hardly ever spoke of his time in Afghanistan. One cold winter evening, however, after a few glasses of scotch, he had told Sherlock about Sam. Sam Rosewood was a friend of John’s who had died in a skirmish from a gunshot wound to the head. One of the army doctors had tried to save him, but it was a lost cause. He had moved on to another man, one who could be saved. No one ever knew which doctor had left Rosewood to die, but it had to have been someone in their division. John had felt that he could have saved Sam, if he had been there. Sherlock remembered the grief in John’s eyes before he had turned away, gulping down the last of his scotch and pouring another.

The victims were killed with a single shot to the head. It was the exact manner in which Rosewood died. Annie Rosewood was taking revenge against every doctor who potentially had failed to save her husband that day. 

Sherlock's mind raced. John had mentioned one more detail: Sam’s wedding ring was never found. His widow had been inconsolable. 

Annie was using his old army knife to carve a wedding ring into each of their fingers. Like the one she had lost.

It took mere seconds for all these thoughts to run through his head. He ran around the corner, finally gaining full view of the lake in the dusk. 

John was there, on the far side, talking to a woman. Mid-thirties. Brunette. Red coat. Fury and betrayal written on every muscle in her body. _John, don't you see? You see, but you don't observe._  Making a noise of exasperation, Sherlock started running towards them. 

They appeared to be arguing. Finally, she pointed something at him through her pocket. John's eyes widened, and he raised his hands in a placating gesture. She shook her head. As Sherlock watched, John finally turned and walked toward the edge of the park, hands slightly raised, the woman following him. They both disappeared behind the trees.

Sherlock screamed, “JOHN!” but neither of them turned.

Sherlock bolted around the lake, following their trajectory. As he emerged through the trees, he saw a flash of a red coat going into a dark alleyway. Fear entrenched itself in Sherlock's stomach. He ran over to the mouth of the alley, but they had already turned a corner.

Sherlock sprinted down the narrow street. He finally made it around the corner, and stopped dead in his tracks.

John. On his knees, hands behind his head, staring at the woman in front of him. He kept his gaze straight ahead, though Sherlock knew he had seen him out of the corner of his eye. She had the revolver pointed straight to John's forehead.

Sherlock pulled the gun from his waistband, walking slowly forward.

“... it had to have been one of you,” she was saying. "All of you have denied it. Whoever it was could have saved him," she said, her voice cracking. "Cowards. You’re all such _cowards_. Sam died defending people like you. But you all got to come home. So now you all can have the same fucking fate he did." 

"It wasn't me, Annie. You know me. I would have died trying to save Sam. I loved him like a brother,” John said, quietly yet evenly.

In a flash, she drew the revolver back and whipped it across his face. He looked back up at her after a moment, blood trickling from a cut on his lip. 

"Don’t you _dare_. Don’t you dare say that to me. I’m tired of all of your excuses. Say your prayers, John."

She cocked the trigger and placed it back to John's forehead. He closed his eyes, as if he were making his peace. 

"Vatican cameos!" Sherlock yelled, running forward. John flattened himself to the ground immediately, and the woman twisted to look at Sherlock, shock on her face, right as Sherlock pulled the trigger. Deep red blossomed from her chest, blending into the scarlet coat. She looked downward, opening her mouth, as if she weren't sure what had happened. Then she crumpled to the ground.

Sherlock raced over to John, who was still flat against the pavement. Sherlock placed a hand, gently, on John's shoulder. His small frame shuddered slightly at the touch, but John let Sherlock help him up to a standing position.

John leaned onto Sherlock, looking down at Annie's body. "Jesus, Sherlock... I... she was Sam's wife. She… It was all her? This whole time?" He was stammering, still in shock. Sherlock pulled John’s face into his hands, looking into his eyes to check for blown pupils from the pistol whip. He wiped the blood from John's lip.  “You're safe now, John. I'm so sorry I left you alone. I should never have done that. Mycroft’s idiots. I should have known better..." 

"No, it's not your fault." John shook his head, closing his eyes.

Sherlock paused. The adrenalin in his system and the proximity to John was causing his heart to race. The tension between the two of them was suddenly magnetic. It was like they were being pulled towards each other by an outside force. He had never felt it to this magnitude before…. save the other times John was in mortal danger. 

When Moriarty had strapped a bomb to John's chest, it had felt like the walls around Sherlock were crumbling. The effort to keep his hand from shaking as he pointed the gun had been immense. 

And then there was the showdown in Irene’s flat, when one of the Americans had seriously threatened to shoot John point blank. Absolute panic was coursing through his system. He hadn't been able to think. He almost hadn't been able to deduce the code.  

John opened his eyes, and Sherlock faltered in his resolve. John looked up at him with grief, and still a hint of fear... yet utter trust. He felt himself leaning, ever so slightly, downward, but he caught himself. _No._

He looked into John’s eyes. He deserved someone better. Not someone with demons. With darkness. John needed warmth. Light.

_Look in my eyes. It’s dark inside._

With immense effort, Sherlock closed his eyes and dropped his hands.

 

* * *

Sherlock sat against his headboard, on top of the covers, contemplating the sleeping figure beside him. John had surely noticed the electricity between them in the alley. It had been unmistakable. He chewed his lip, thinking. He needed to be more careful. _  
_

He had helped John back to the street, leaving Annie’s body behind and calling Lestrade with his free hand and explaining what had happened. They had waited only until the police arrived, and Sherlock had promised to come in for a full interview the next day. He flat-out refused to let them speak to John. Not yet.

During the ride home, John had fallen asleep. _Exhausted. Emotional stress._ He had slumped down so that his head rested on Sherlock’s shoulder. Watching John’s small body curled against his own, which had come so close to obliteration… he felt a strange lurching feeling in his heart. Without forethought, he kissed John's temple, briefly, ever so lightly. 

When they had arrived, Sherlock had carefully pulled John out of the taxi and carried him up the stairs, taking him directly to Sherlock's bedroom.  After tending to the wound on John’s lip, which was relatively minor, he grabbed some extra blankets, swaddling John tightly. He had contemplated calling Mycroft and finding out _how in bloody hell_ John had slipped past the perimeter unnoticed, then thought better of it. Later. He would yell at Mycroft later.

Sherlock had settled onto the other side of the bed to stand watch for the rest of the night.  

Now, he gazed at John, who seemed so small in his sleep. Watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Furrowed brow. There was no one else he had ever cared for, not like this. He had never felt this kind of protectiveness before. 

Never felt...

Sherlock closed his eyes, his teeth clenching. _Can’t_. 

From a young age, Sherlock had known he was not like his peers. He had let them call him a “freak,” until he adopted the persona. Taken on the indifference. The isolation. It was easier. None of them had interested him, anyway. Then he had discovered the needle, and the black emptiness made the numbness easier. 

He had lost years to a drugged haze, willing to do anything for a fix. Even living on the street for a time. He had always dodged around questions about how he had built his homeless network, and John had never pushed the issue. 

John didn’t deserve someone who was so damaged. Someone who had that kind of past. He had to keep the status quo-- friends, but no more.

There was too much at stake. _There is nothing else I can do. He can’t get too close._

 

* * *

John slept through the next morning and into the afternoon. He awoke to the sounds of Sherlock playing the violin from the living room. It took him a moment to realize that he was in Sherlock's room.  He was still fully clothed but for his jacket and shoes, which were folded neatly on the chair across the room. He glanced over to the other side of the bed-- it was lightly tussled, but still made. Sherlock had probably been there, but over the covers.

John sat up, stretching, and put on his shoes. He walked down the hallway, quietly, stopping to see Sherlock playing a Brahms concerto by the window. It was soothing, but melancholy, almost elegiac. Sherlock had a tendency to choose his music according to his moods. 

John leaned against the doorframe, watching Sherlock play.  His lithe body swayed with the music, and the golden sunlight filtered through the window, giving him an ethereal glow in silhouette. Finally, the piece ended and Sherlock stood still as the last note echoed through the flat. He would do that sometimes, eyes closed, as if he were trying to absorb the remaining energy waves from the music.

"That was amazing," John said, yawning, feeling the cut on his lip. It was throbbing slightly. 

Sherlock turned, worry lining his face again. "I'm so sorry to wake you, John. I thought you might sleep through it. You were quite dead to the world." 

"It was a lovely way to wake up," John replied, yawning again. He shuffled into the kitchen to make tea, and Sherlock turned to play again, this time a jaunty Verdi. 

John grinned in the kitchen. As he rubbed his eyes and picked up the kettle to fill it with water, he tried to piece together the events of yesterday. And what had happened with Sherlock.

When the gun had been pointed to his head, he had seen Sherlock's face. His indifference was gone; there was only absolute terror. He was unmasked.

Sherlock had rushed over and held his face to check him for injuries, and John had been sure that Sherlock was about to kiss him. The thing was... John had wanted him to. He shivered slightly, remembering. The air between them had radiated energy. All John had heard was the sound of Sherlock's breathing, and all he felt was his hands against John's cheeks. Their gazes were locked, and the myriad emotions in Sherlock’s eyes were unmistakable. Then, abruptly, Sherlock had closed his eyes-- as if making a decision-- and let go. John had felt like something had been ripped from him, something he hadn’t even known he wanted.

He had been in too much shock to think about it. The knowledge that all of those men had been killed by Annie, who had been such a vibrant, kind woman, was the stuff of new nightmares. John had been in such a daze that he had hardly been able to walk back to the street.

As he was dozing in the taxi, though, he had watched Sherlock through the slits of his eyes. For a moment, a split second, Sherlock had looked at him with an indescribable tenderness. And just as John had drifted off, he thought he felt Sherlock's lips on his temple. 

John put the kettle down and leaned against the counter. He could just be reading into this. Imagining things. But there had been something… he had _definitely_ felt something.

He squinted his eyes shut. Sherlock was the focal point of John’s world. His best friend. His partner. But was that really all? Yesterday there had been something else. A tangible force, like their two bodies were meant to be closer, and it was  _wrong_ , just completely and utterly wrong, that Sherlock had forced them apart. 

Images floated through his mind. Irene. The Dartmoor innkeep, smirking when he said they didn’t want one bed. Mrs. Hudson, assuming they were sleeping in the same room.

It was all so odd. So completely unfathomable. Yet... they had never been truly platonic, had they? He rubbed his hand over his face, remembering the intensity of gazes over a body, the laughter in the back of a cab. Sherlock stealing the ashtray just for John. The way he felt, during those times, was more than he had ever felt for a mate. His heart ached and felt unbelievably light at the same time, remembering all of those moments. 

It was almost like...

_Shit. I'm in love with Sherlock._

John turned abruptly and paced back and forth, raking a hand through his hair.  _Shit. Shit._

_I. Love. Sherlock._

_I love Sherlock._

Once he said the words to himself, he didn't know how he could ever have not known it. Sherlock had taken over his heart, his mind, filling him to the brim almost from that first day. It was no wonder there was no room for anyone else. It was so glaringly obvious. How could he not have realized it? John leaned against the counter again, trying to breathe evenly. He stayed that way for several minutes, listening to the lilting notes coming from the other room.

Now what.

His whole world had shifted in only a few moments, while Sherlock was blissfully unaware. What if... Sherlock didn't feel that way? What if he was incapable of that kind of relationship?It was more than possible. John had never seen Sherlock...  _with_ anyone. And neither had Mrs. Hudson. 

He could just stay quiet and pretend nothing had happened. Sherlock would surely notice his change of psyche by the way he tied his shoelaces or something. But neither of them would say anything, and Sherlock would certainly never make a move. They could live out the rest of their lives this way, and John would never feel completely whole... but he would still have Sherlock. 

The sound of particularly jubilant phrase in Sherlock’s playing brought him out of his reverie. John's heart clenched involuntarily.

No. He couldn't live a half life. He couldn't repress this. Could he? No. No, he couldn't. Not now that he had let himself realize it.

_Shit._

It was a caclulated risk. If he was right, the possibilities of their future life opened in front of him like a vast, deep blue sky, endless, achingly beautiful.If Sherlock denied feeling the same way... it could rip them apart.

But if he played it right, they could just go back to the way things were, no harm done. They hadn't yet crossed a line. He could do that. Couldn't he?

John stared avidly at the teakettle for a moment, trying to listen to his intuition.

_I have to try._

John paused, steeling himself before he could change his mind, and walking back into the living room, leaving the tea behind.  

“Sherlock,” John said, swallowing loudly. Now that action was required, it seemed like this was going to be harder than he thought. “I... we need to talk.” He sat down in his armchair. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, then he placed violin and bow in the case, snapping it shut and sitting in the chair opposite John. He steepled his hands against his lips and waited.

John sighed, leaning down to rest his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands together. He hung his head for a moment, then looked up at Sherlock.

“I don’t know how to say this.”  Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow even higher, not saying anything.

“Sherlock, have you ever felt that... we... that things between us aren’t strictly...” _God, this is unbearable_ , John thought.

“Deep breaths, John,” Sherlock said softly.

John gritted his teeth. “Fine. I’m just going to say it.”

He glanced down, gathering his courage, then looked Sherlock in the eyes. “Sherlock, you can be the biggest tosser in the world. You make me so angry I want to clock you half the time. You are so completely inconsiderate almost all the time. You’re too lazy or preoccupied to even get a pen out of your own pocket. But… I love the way you play the violin when you’re frustrated. I love the way that you can’t seem to be pleasant to anyone, ever. Except me. I love the way your eyes look when you have solved a case. I even love finding bloody heads in the refrigerator. Because without all of those things, you wouldn’t be you.”

John took a deep breath. He stared concentratedly at his feet.  “I know we are friends, flatmates, partners. And that’s all I thought there was, regardless of popular opinion to the contrary.  But yesterday I felt something shift, when you saved me. I saw it in your eyes.”  John glanced back up, apprehension in his throat.

"So... do you? Feel something?"

Sherlock was still regarding him with a calculating stare, his fingers on his lips.

 

* * *

The words of John’s declaration hung in the air. Every fibre of Sherlock’s being was yearning to walk over and pull him into an embrace, but he remained taciturn and immobile, his face blank. _I have to let you go, John. For your sake._

“Well? Are you even going to say anything at all?” John said finally, apprehension starting to creep into his voice.

Sherlock slowly lowered his hands and said, “John, you know I value your friendship and partnership...”

John got up and started pacing back and forth.

“I value your friendship,” Sherlock continued, “especially since, as I told you in Dartmoor, you are my only one. However, that’s all that I am capable of, surely you have realized that. It’s sentiment. A defect of the losing side. Weakness. Anything of that caliber would be completely out of my area. I told you long ago that I was married to my work, and I meant it. I’m sorry if you misconstrued my feelings of... goodwill, of partnership, for something more.” Sherlock felt a sharp pain in his chest when he uttered the words. _I’m doing this for you.You have to understand._  

John stopped, his fists clenching, and said through gritted teeth, “Goodwill? _Goodwill?_ You’re fucking telling me that’s all you feel? You honestly felt nothing yesterday? When you held my face in your hands? Or the night at the pool with Moriarty?”

“I was afraid for your safety. Again, I truly value your friendship--”

“You bloody coward,” John spat. He paced back and forth a few more times in silence, doubt creeping into his face. Suddenly he stopped, and slowly he turned to look at Sherlock once more.  Sherlock's eyes were locked in his, and he felt something sharp-edged in his heart when he realized-- John believed him.

Everything stopped. The air was static. Sherlock was drowning in the desolation of John’s eyes. They enveloped him like cold darkness. 

Then John turned on his heel and walked briskly over to the stairwell. Sherlock heard his footsteps down the stairs and the sound of the door slam.

Only then did Sherlock close his eyes and lower his head, letting the tears silently fall.

 

* * *

John walked out of the flat in a haze, not sure what to do. He hadn’t been prepared for this reaction, not really. _Was I imagining all of it? How could I have been so utterly wrong…_

Suddenly nothing made sense. John's emotions and thoughts were all too jumbled.

He shouldn't have done it. He should have kept his sodding mouth shut and gone on with their lives the way they were. _  
_

John walked down the street, contemplating his options. He couldn’t go back to Baker Street. Not for the moment. He walked aimlessly, until he had gotten far enough away to gather his thoughts. Finally, he sat down on a bench.

He should have thought this through, considered the consequences. Now things might never go back to how they were. He had just taken the biggest gamble of his life. And he had lost.

As Sherlock would say, _"idiot."_

John watched passersby, people just starting their days. On their way to work. He felt like his whole body was aching. There was only one place he could go, one refuge. He had avoided her for a long time, but it was his only option. He took out his phone. 

  

* * *

Sherlock got up, walking over to the window and watching John pass out of sight. He closed his eyes. _I had to do it, John. This is all for you. I don’t want to hide the truth._

John would heal, in time, and forget this. Find someone else. Sherlock’s chest tightened at the thought, but he forced himself to believe it. It was better this way.

Sherlock waited. Hours passed. He felt like a caged animal. He was frantic, then exhausted. John still didn’t return. The morning sunlight slanted to afternoon, then to dusk. Silence.

Sherlock paced. Then he lay on the couch, trying to lose hours in thought. Unsuccessful. Distractedly, attempted to make tea. Even more unsuccessful. Found his hidden stash of cigarettes which John had put in the skull. Smoked every single one. Every moment felt like a million moments, eternity ticking by. 

Creeping thoughts. Distractions. Fears. What if John never forgave him? John was proud. He could be hurt enough never to return to Baker Street, even to work together again. Then he would have lost everything. Sherlock ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

Sounds of night in London filtered through the flat. More hours clicked by. Time was fickle, speeding up, then slowing down excruciatingly. Couldn’t seem to make up its mind.

Sherlock picked up his violin. As he was about to draw the bow against the strings, he put it down again in frustration. He leaned against the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. He had failed. He shouldn’t have dropped the barrier, even for a second. John saw through it. That’s what brought this on. If only John hadn’t been in mortal danger. It was so much more difficult to keep the same level of control.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair again. He tried to stop himself from thinking about… what he wanted to do. His thoughts had trended towards it all day. From the moment John’s eyes, full of despair, had ripped at his very core. He had been clean for so long, but this was too much. Sherlock had always turned to the needle to make himself numb. It was how he had deepened his indifference. Before John came. Now, sans John, the destructive waves of emotion (of pain) were breaking through.

After a few more minutes, he couldn’t bear it anymore. The battle of wills was lost. He couldn't escape it now. 

Sherlock turned on his heel, walking straight back to his room. He walked over to his windowsill and removed a panel to reveal a small hidden alcove. It was the one hiding spot that John and Mycroft hadn’t managed to find. 

Inside was a silver case and a bottle of solution. Sherlock brushed the dust off the lid and opened the case with something akin to reverence. There was a single syringe inside. He touched it with his forefingers. He missed the ritual of this. The preparation, the release. He pushed back the rising pangs of guilt.

Sherlock walked, slowly, carrying the precious objects into the living room and sitting on the sofa. He stared at them for a moment, taking his time. Finally, he took the syringe out and filled it with the solution, rolling up his sleeve. He flicked the air out and injected it into his arm. Waited a few minutes. It was taking a while to feel the effects. Possibly because of all the nicotine. 

He looked at the bottle. Still a lot left. He hesitated, then gave himself a second dose.

As he settled back on the sofa, he thought he heard slanting lines of music coming from outside. The chatter and laughter of children. He turned his face groggily toward the window. Dawn was starting to break through the clouds. Sounds of the morning commute in London echoed down Baker Street.   

Then the darkness rose on both sides of him in black waves. Relieved, he let himself slip into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after he had left 221B in utter despair, John arrives back at the flat. He's ready to tell Sherlock to forget everything he had said, to let things go back the way they were. Instead, he finds Sherlock unconscious, a needle and bottle of cocaine solution nearby. Horrified,John rushes Sherlock to the hospital, not knowing when Sherlock will wake up-- or if it is already too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to cloakstone69 for being a fantastic and honest beta.

John watched the streets passing by in the bright London morning from the taxi window. Staying the night at Harry’s had helped him clear his head. She could tell something was wrong, but she didn’t press him for explanations. He was relieved. He didn’t even tell her about Annie. Not yet.

Laying on Harry’s couch long into the night, sleeplessly, John had come to a decision.  He would simply have to let things go back to the way they were.  Being around Sherlock every day, going on cases, would have to be enough. It would be painful, but he couldn’t fathom leaving Sherlock completely. 

John opened the door to 221B, and slowly made his way up to the flat. It sounded completely empty. John exhaled, relieved. Maybe he wouldn't have to make this confrontation, at least not yet.

There was a pervasive smell of cigarette smoke down the hall. _Bugger._  He must have found the stash of cigarettes. When John reached the landing and walked into the living room, he stopped in shock.

Sherlock lay on the couch, his limbs strewn at awkward angles. Like he was asleep, which was odd enough in itself, yet… something was off. _  
_

As John started walking towards him, he stopped short. There, on the table by the couch, was something that John hadn't noticed at first: a syringe and a nearly-empty bottle of cocaine solution. There must have been a hiding place John hadn’t found.

_Sherlock. No._

John ran over to the long-limbed, unconscious body on the couch, frantically calling an ambulance. He felt Sherlock's forehead. Damp, hot sweat. Once he hung up with the dispatcher, he said, "Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me? How much did you take?" John took Sherlock's pulse (racing), as he lifted his head infinitesimally off the couch, then dropped it back down.

"John. John, you came back," Sherlock said, his speech slurred.

"Of course, of course I came back, you bloody tosser.  After all this time, why did you throw it all away? Why did you go back to this?” 

Sherlock tried to speak, then dropped off again. John couldn't wake him. Due to the long interim since his previous injections, John wasn't sure how Sherlock's body would react. It looked like he had given himself a huge dose, considering the state of the bottle. 

John busied himself by getting a cold washcloth and putting it on Sherlock's head. The most excruciating thing was that, though he was a doctor, John was powerless. Every moment that passed, every microsecond that ticked by, was agony. He gritted his teeth as he felt Sherlock's clammy skin. _I should have come back sooner. Every moment counts._

Sherlock was murmuring something in his drugged sleep. John, who was sitting on the floor near Sherlock's head, inched closer, brushing away the dark curls which had been sticking to Sherlock's sweaty forehead. 

"What? What is it, Sherlock? The ambulance is coming. Just a little longer," John said softly, his voice eminating calm despite the tumult roaring in his head.

"Don't..." Sherlock mumbled. 

"Don't what?" John said.

"John. I’m so sorry, John.”

Sherlock wasn't making any sense-- he was in a haze. Best to keep him semi-conscious, talking at least."Sorry about what?" John said gently.

"Don’t leave me, John. Please.” 

John's expression softened. He touched Sherlock’s cheek, lightly. Sherlock’s face lifted, ever so slightly, into his crooked half-grin.

“I won’t. I’ll never leave you,” John whispered.

The doorbell rang, clamoring through the flat. The moment broken, John jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs to get to the front door. He let in the paramedics, explaining that he had found the syringe and bottle, but that he didn't know how much Sherlock had taken. They took his vitals and strapped him to a stretcher, hurrying out as quickly as they came in.

As they loaded Sherlock into the ambulance, fear finally started to take over. Until now, John had been able to remain clinical, staying in his doctor mindset. Now, a deep pit of panic settled into his stomach. He was about to step into the ambulance when the paramedic stopped him. 

"Hey mate, sorry. If you're not immediate family, you're going to have to come behind." 

John looked at Sherlock, immobile on the stretcher. "No, I'm just his friend." The paramedic closed the door, and the ambulance peeled away. 

John closed his eyes, swallowing hard.  After a moment, he hailed a taxi, hastily instructing the cabbie to follow the ambulance. John pulled out his mobile and called Mycroft.

"John, I know you want an explanation about what happened the other day, but I'll have to call you ba-" 

"No, it’s not that,” John interrupted. “It's an emergency." 

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked after a pause, his voice detached.  

“He… he relapsed," John choked out. “I think it’s an overdose. I’m following the ambulance to St. Bart’s.”  There was silence on the other end of the line.  

"Mycroft?" His voice cracked slightly.

"I'll meet you there," was all he said, before the line clicked dead. 

 

 

* * *

John finally reached the hospital, and was pointed directly to the waiting area. Sherlock was still in critical condition, and no visitors were allowed yet. John sat in the far corner of the room, holding his head in his hands. Now there was nothing left for him to do. Except wait.

It was all his fault. If he hadn't gone to meet Annie, if he hadn't fallen into her trap, none of this would have ever happened. Sherlock wouldn’t have saved him, and John wouldn’t have… said what he did. At this moment, they would probably be sitting in their flat, drinking tea, discussing how to solve the Phantom Ring murders.

John was lost in thought for minutes or hours, it was impossible to tell. The sounds of the hospital around him were like the buzzing of cicadas in the summer heat. He barely noticed.

"John." John glanced up. Mycroft was staring down at him impassively, though John could detect just the faintest hint of tension in the set of his jaw. John stood up anxiously.

"John, I have spoken with the doctors. You might want to stay seated for this," Mycroft said. John's whole body seized and he could barely breathe.  

"Wh-what? What is it? Sherlock isn't...? No." John turned away, unable to bear looking at Mycroft's stern face. He put one hand up to steady himself against the wall, staring at the blank whiteness in front of him.

"No, John, he isn't dead. Please, sit." John turned around, slowly, and crossed his arms defiantly. He raised an eyebrow.  _  
_

Mycroft sighed deeply, twirling his umbrella in his hands, avoiding looking at him.  "Sherlock overdosed quite severely, and his body went into shock."

He looked up at John. “I’m so sorry, John. He has fallen into a coma. The doctors don't know if or when he will wake up."

John gaped at him. “He… they… a coma?” He couldn’t seem to comprehend the words. His legs could no longer seem to support him, and he sat down, shakily.  _Sherlock might never wake up_ , he repeated to himself _. Sherlock. Never wake up._

Mycroft set his mouth in a thin line. “They are going to observe him overnight. We may be able to visit him at some point, but it’s unclear when. If you would like to go back to your flat and rest, I’ll take it from here.”

John shook his head vehemently. Though he was exhausted from lack of sleep, he would never leave. Not now. _I promised._

Mycroft nodded curtly, seeming to understand. He sat down next to John, and they both settled in to wait. 

  

* * *

Hours passed by in an achingly slow march. John would sit, then pace, then sit again. He felt too restless to stay in one place. Mycroft, on the other hand, was as still as a statue. People filtered in and out. Families wept, doctors consoled them.

 _This must be what hell is like,_ John thought, seeing a woman go to pieces across the room. Or at least purgatory. Psychological torture. Endless waiting. Hovering in between life and death.

They waited long into the night. Finally, a nurse called for the family of Sherlock Holmes. John stood up so quickly that his head spun. He and Mycroft swiftly walked across the waiting room, and she motioned for them to follow her.

The nurse read from Sherlock's file as they walked into the I.C.U., rattling off his vitals and other information. His head pounding, John barely heard her, except for snippets of sentences. _Overdose. Brain activity low. Full recovery uncertain. Could wake up tomorrow, next week, or not at all._  

Finally, after an endless sea of doorways, each framing the image of a motionless body and beeping monitors, the nurse turned into a room. John paused, bracing himself, before entering after her.

He stopped in his tracks, momentarily unable to breathe. Sherlock was lying on the hospital bed, hooked up to a dozen machines. His dark curls were spread against the pillow, and his skin as even more translucently pale than usual. But the reason why John's heart started beating uncontrollably was because the body on the bed was so completely at odds with what Sherlock _was._ There was an enormous dichotomy from Sherlock-- vibrant, always in motion, always observing, calculating, whisking away to crime scenes-- and this empty shell.

 _No. Not_ empty. _Not yet._ John ran his hand over his face, trying to banish the unwelcome thought, and started walking over to the bed. He pulled up a chair and sat next to Sherlock, taking his hand. It was cold. Too cold. He reached up to brush an errant lock of Sherlock's hair out of his eyes, and his fingers lingered on Sherlock's cheek. He could feel Sherlock's breath, slow, but present. John bowed his head, covering his face with one hand but clinging to Sherlock's hand with the other. Mycroft stood at the foot of the bed, silently observing. 

 _It’s my fault. It’s all my fault._ It was a broken record playing in his head. If only he could rewind to that morning. Stop himself from saying those words, those dangerous words. He had been so incredibly selfish.

After a few minutes, John finally looked up at Mycroft in disbelief and grief. Mycroft's glance flicked to John's face, and he walked over to the other side of the bed.  He touched Sherlock's hand, briefly, then turned to look out the window. He cleared his throat.

"You know, John, I have had to go through this with him more times than you can imagine. For several years, I constantly wondered whether the next phone call would be to notify me that Sherlock’s body had been found. He overdosed several times. I had to detach myself emotionally. He was like a loose cannon. Lestrade tried to help by bringing him to crime scenes, letting him have an outlet for his intellect. He would go into a fervor until he solved the case, but in between, he would go into drugged hazes for several days at a time."

He turned to look at John, who was staring back at him. 

"I... I had no idea that his drug use was so recent,” John stammered. His mind flashed back to the first case they had together, to the “drugs bust” Lestrade had initiated. At the time, John had thought it was just a battle for dominance between Sherlock and Lestrade.

Mycroft nodded, walking back to the bed. "He would go through phases of staying clean, but he would always relapse. He has an addictive personality, surely you can see that. He is always looking for the next fix. The next case." Mycroft paused. "But this is nothing compared to how he was, before."

"Before?"

Pause. "Before he met you, John." Mycroft said finally. His face faltered, infinitesimally, but then the grimly-set, firm jaw was back. "He had been clean for months, but I thought it was only a matter of time until I got another call. Once he met you, however, he didn't touch a syringe again."

John gazed at Sherlock. He blinked tears away.  “It wasn’t me,” he said quietly. “He must have been able to stop for some other reason.”

Mycroft looked at him incredulously, then his face relaxed in a realization. “Ah. I see.”

John's eyes snapped up to look at him. “See what?”Mycroft was so cryptic sometimes.

Mycroft frowned. “I have never known my brother to care so much for a single person, John. If what I have seen and heard is any indication, and I believe that it is, you are the one person that Sherlock would do anything for. He would probably even die for you.”

John shut his eyes, trying to ignore the grating pain in his stomach. Mycroft was wrong. Wasn’t he? "He... he told me that he felt nothing for me. That I had... misread him. He said that he valued my friendship, but that was all. That this kind of sentiment was completely out of his area.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat again, visibly uncomfortable. "As you know, sentiment is not something that we Holmes are particularly _fluent_ in. I do know one thing, however. I could tell the difference in him from the moment you moved in all those months ago. It was like there was... a lightness in him, which I hadn't seen since his childhood. It had been all but swallowed by obscurity, by his nature to push all emotion, all joy, away from him. He said it allowed him to think more clearly. Calling himself a sociopath, which is clearly untrue, was to turn away from life. His self-isolation was worsened by his drug addiction. The person who emerged from that was almost unrecognizable as my brother. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. " He sighed, turning away to look out the window again.

“That is, until you came into his life. And I started to see flashes of my little brother again. It seemed like he had started to… _feel_ again, but of course he would ever admit it. I am certain that it was not a coincidence. No one else has ever had that effect on him.”

He turned back, but John was staring at Sherlock, a tear running down his cheek. _Sherlock. Why didn’t you let me see._ All of the flashes of emotion, the small moments when he thought he had seen the true Sherlock, flooded his mind.

"I'll give you a moment," Mycroft said, and started to walk toward the door.

"Wait, Mycroft." John said, standing and striding after him, his face still slightly contorted with pain. "When Sherlock relapsed before, was it ever this bad?" John tried to swallow, but it felt like something was blocking his throat.

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who was still as motionless as when they had arrived. "To be honest, John, no. I have never seen him this incapacitated. He has never gone into a full coma before. I'm so very sorry." Setting his lips into a thin line once more, he swept from the room. 

John felt like he couldn't breathe. This couldn't be happening. It felt like everything was falling apart. The one thing that had anchored him to reality was slipping through his fingers.

John walked back over to Sherlock, carefully taking the perfect, pale, cold hand in his. 

John murmured, softly, "Sherlock. I know you probably can’t hear me. But there have been some accounts that comatose patients can hear what loved ones say to them when they are unconscious. I am going to say this once. You are not allowed to die. Do you hear me? You are _not allowed._ I won't let you. You will not let go. I’m not going to leave you. I don't believe that you don't feel anything. I believed you yesterday, but now I see the truth. I think you were afraid. Afraid of delving into a realm that is altogether unknown to you. More than that, you thought you were savingme. You were letting me go. If there is one thing that you are, it's a martyr. But you're wrong. I won't be safe, or even sane, without you." There was only silence. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered slightly, but that is a common involuntary response in comatose patients. There was only the steady beeping of the monitor in the background.

John sighed, hanging his head. He was suddenly exhausted. The birds were starting to chirp in the predawn outside the window. He put his head down on the bed, and eventually felt himself drift off, still holding Sherlock’s hand.

_Please, god. Let him live._

 

* * *

Days went by in an endless haze. John refused to leave the hospital, despite countless protests from Harry and Mycroft. People came and went. Molly brought a bouquet of gardenias and left it by Sherlock’s bedside, her lip trembling. She squeezed his hand briefly, before scurrying away, hiding tears. Mrs. Hudson had to leave the room because she was crying uncontrollably. John tried to comfort her, but he was numb, so numb. It was hard to think straight.

Lestrade came a day later. He stood by the bedside, grief etched on his face. He pulled up a chair and sat next to Sherlock for more than an hour, telling him (as if he could hear) about the newest murder on his docket. He spoke to Sherlock with an affection that John had never known he held for him. 

Afterward, John let Lestrade interview him about Rosewood. He answered all the questions, his mind in a daze. Didn't they know it didn't matter anymore?

He stayed. He slept in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed, or in an on-call room, but mostly he couldn’t sleep at all. He lived on cafeteria coffee and stale biscuits. Nothing seemed to matter. Sherlock’s condition didn’t improve. The gardenias wilted. 

In the desolately long hours of the night, when the hospital was silent but for the steady beeping of monitors in the background, the shadows stretched to inhuman proportions in the darkened hallways. Everything took on a surreal quality. That was when John felt the creeping fear rise in his throat. Sitting next to the bed, close to the motionless body, it was like they were passing through the veils between life and death. He felt like he was clinging onto Sherlock, but he was slipping through John’s fingers, bit by bit. 

 

 

* * *

On the morning of the tenth day, Mycroft briskly walked into Sherlock’s room. John was slumped over in the chair in the corner, watching Sherlock, his mind blank.

“John, we have something to discuss. Would you accompany me outside?” Slowly, tiredly, John looked up at him.  

“Not now, Mycroft,” he said. _I don't have the energy for this._

“It is a matter of some… importance,” Mycroft replied haltingly. Unusual for him. John sighed, and got up, swaying slightly on his feet. He felt dizzy.

Mycroft helped steady him, then dropped his hands. “You really need to take better care of yourself, John,” he said sternly. “Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted this.”

John snapped his head up to look at him. “Wouldn’t _want_ this, you mean. You referred to him in the past tense. As if he were already dead.”

Mycroft looked like he were about to say something, but thought better of it. “Of course,” he offered, “apologies. Shall we?” 

He turned and strode out of the room. With one last look at Sherlock’s immobile form, John shuffled after him.

Mycroft walked down the hall to an exit, holding the door for John. John walked out, slightly perplexed, squinting against the sunlight. He hadn’t left the hospital for days. His eyes were having trouble adjusting to the natural light.

Mycroft gestured towards a bench, and they sat. The remained in silence for several minutes. The air was cool, and there was a slight breeze. It felt so fresh against John’s face. He closed his eyes, trying to savor the feeling. Trying to clear the smell of the hospital, of sickness and death, from his nose.

Myroft finally cleared his throat, breaking John from his reverie. “John, it may be difficult, but I am going to ask you to remain calm.”

John opened his eyes to look at him, warily. This was not going to be good, whatever it was.

Mycroft cleared his throat once more. “As you know, Sherlock has not had any change in brain function since he went into the coma. His state has been stable, but the conditions aren’t favorable. You are a doctor, John. You know what this means.”

John was already shaking his head. “No. No, people wake up from comas like this all the time. Sometimes after years. I have seen it.”

Mycroft nodded his assent, but went on: “Yes, but those cases are rare, as I’m sure you know. Every day, every hour that goes by, lessens the chance. By now, the probability of recovery has gone down significantly. In fact, it is almost impossible, according to the neurologist.”

John was still shaking his head. He couldn’t fathom what Mycroft was implying. No. _No._  

Mycroft sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly from his usually-perfect posture. Suddenly he looked much older, much more tired.

“John, I know this is difficult, but... I think we should discuss taking Sherlock off life support.”

There was roaring in John’s ears. He jumped up from the seat. His fists were balled at his sides. “ _No_. How can you… it’s out of the question. Absolutely not. I… I know you are his next of kin, so it’s your decision, but… please… ”

John turned away, his body shaking.   _Please, no. God, no._

Mycroft hesitated, then stood. “Yes, technically it is my decision, but I would never make it without your consent, John. You are closer to him than anyone. Just consider it as an option. Eventually, the best way to… care for Sherlock, may be to let him go.” 

 _This can’t be happening._ John's sleepless delirium, exhaustion, and despair all began to pour out of him. He felt like heaving.  

Mycroft paused a moment. “I am sorry, John. But you have to think about what Sherlock would want. All lives end, now or later.” 

 _All lives end. All hearts are broken._  

John didn’t respond or turn around. Mycroft hesitated, then retreated from John’s trembling form.

 

 

* * *

More days passed. Endless nights. No one disturbed him. John felt like he was passing into a comatose state like Sherlock. Only heard the sound of the monitor. _Beep, beep._ Sherlock’s pulse rate was going down, slowly. As if the fabric of his being was slowly disintegrating. 

A few days after Mycroft’s visit, John was sleeping in the chair next to Sherlock when a shrill alarm startled him awake. It took him a few moments to realize what was happening. Sherlock was coding.

He ran out into the hallway, yelling for the nurse. Half a dozen people ran into the room, shouting orders, charging the defibrillator. John remained in the hallway, clutching his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Black dots started to form in his vision. He couldn’t focus on what was happening in the room behind him. Finally, darkness overtook him, and he slumped down to the floor.

 

 

* * *

John opened his eyes, blinking against a bright light. Someone was shining something into his eyes and saying something to him, but it was all garbled. He was vaguely aware that he was now in a chair. The blurred shapes before his vision moved away. John thought he heard someone say, "He'll be fine. Had a panic attack, hyperventilated." The shape turned back to him and said, "John, can you hear me? Nod if you understand.”

John focused on moving his head up and down. With tremendous effort, he managed it. “Good. I'm going to need you to concentrate on breathing deeply. Can you do that?"

John tried to focus on breathing, and the room slowly started to come into focus. The nurse was standing in front of him. His head was spinning, and everything seemed unreasonably confusing. 

"Wha-what happened?" He stammered. 

"You had a panic attack, but you’re going to be fine. You're just in shock. " John clutched his head. There was something... important he was supposed to be remembering. 

"Would you like a shock blanket, John?" A bemused voice said from across the room. John raised his head, slowly, as the nurse moved aside. 

Sherlock. Sherlock was sitting up, propped against pillows. Smiling his crooked half smile. His eyes had a hollow, ill look to them, but they were open. _Sherlock._  

John started to get up, barely aware of his feet under him, stumbling slightly. The nurse helped him stay upright. His head was still spinning, but he didn't care. John walked over to Sherlock, taking his hand in both of his. Sherlock looked up at him, sheepishly.  

There must have been other people in the room, because there was some discreet rustling in the background as they left. John didn’t pay attention. He knelt by the bed, wordlessly, and kissed Sherlock's hand. Then he put his head down on the bed, still holding onto Sherlock, shoulders shaking in relief. He suddenly felt exhausted; the past two weeks had finally caught up with him.

He felt Sherlock's hand on top of his head. He glanced up, staring into Sherlock's vibrant eyes, unable to tear himself away. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Sherlock.” John rasped, finally. “You were in a coma for so long. I thought…I _almost_ thought… that you were gone.” John shook his head. It was still hard to believe.

Sherlock smiled crookedly and said simply, "Letting go is not in my nature." John's eyes widened. 

"You... you heard me?" 

Sherlock cocked his head, looking at him with his bemused gaze, one eyebrow raised. It was so... normal, that John had to laugh.

"Heard what?" Sherlock was still puzzled, if amused. 

John sighed, cracking a small grin. "Nothing. Just something I said to you when you were comatose. It could be a coincidence." _Or it was absorbed into your subconscious. One of those._

Sherlock's gaze softened, and he looked as if he were about to say something more… then he stopped himself.  He glanced down, as if to gather his thoughts. When he looked back up, his clinical aura had returned. Sherlock gently took his hand from John's. "I am sorry that I put you through that, John,” he said calmly. “You shouldn't have to deal with your overdosing flatmate." 

John stared at him, his anger starting to boil over, eradicating the exhaustion.  “Sherlock, don't. Not after all of this. Not after I almost lost you.”

"Don't what, John?" Sherlock said flatly.

"Don't _do_ that, you're doing it again."

"You are being _extremely_ imprecise, John. You know how that annoys me. Do try to explain yourself more clearly," Sherlock said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders. 

John stood up, taking Sherlock's chin in his hand and pulling his face so that their eyes were locked. "You go away somewhere. Whenever you think you are feeling too much... _sentiment_ , or that I am getting too close. You shut down. Like a machine. And suddenly all you are is an outer shell, clinical, brilliant, but empty. You do it on purpose. I can see it in your eyes." 

"I told you already, John--" Sherlock began.

"No. You were _lying_. I see it now. You bloody tosser. Why else would you have turned back to drugs, on that day of all days? You think I'm _that_ bad at deductions?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. He set his jaw in a firm line and averted his gaze.

"Look at me. Sherlock. _Look at me._ " Sherlock's eyes slowly came up to meet John's.

"That day I found you in the flat, when you had overdosed, you asked me-- _begged_ me-- not to leave you." _Please, Sherlock. Please. Stop this._

Sherlock didn’t blink an eye. "I was drugged, John. I might have said a lot of things I didn't mean." Sherlock shook his head, a pitying look in his eyes. John felt utter relief which had taken hold only moments earlier starting to fade.

There was only one way. He had to get Sherlock to break through the mask. To let himself truly feel. But how… 

John lost himself in thought for a few moments. Finally, he sat up straight. "Ok, Sherlock. I propose an experiment." Sherlock scoffed. "No, really. One experiment. To replicate what happened that day, the day you saved me from Annie. What almost happened, before you stopped yourself. If it doesn't work, we will never speak of this again. I will never again mistake your 'feelings of goodwill' for something else."

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow. John took a deep breath. "I can’t believe I am going to say this,” he muttered, then looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “I'm going to kiss you. If you truly feel nothing, if you have no reaction whatsoever, I will leave you alone. Things can go back to the way they were. I promise. But you have to be honest. You have to actually try. Deal?" 

Sherlock raised his eyebrow even higher. Then he rolled his eyes, as if placating an annoying child. "Fine, John. Go ahead, if it will settle this once and for all."

John winced, but quickly regained his composure. He hesitated slightly, then put his hand on Sherlock's high cheekbone and tangled the other in his dark mess of curls. He closed his eyes, and leaned down to kiss him.

Sherlock stayed motionless at first. John started slowly, softly. _I can’t believe that I am actually doing this. It should seem so... odd, but it doesn’t._ He brushed the luscious lips, the cupid's bow. He immediately felt the electric pulse between them, like the day Sherlock saved him from Annie. Stronger than ever before. Far stronger than the connection to any woman he had ever been with. 

And then he knew. This was what he wanted. Only this. He’d had no idea how much he ached for it, but now he knew.

He just had to make Sherlock see that he wanted it too.

 

 

* * *

John seemed to be unreasonably fixated on the experiment idea. Now that he believed Sherlock was lying, he was not likely to let go of the notion again. Not without complete and accurate proof. The only way to convince him was to let his ‘experiment’ fail. Act like the kiss meant nothing to him. Simple. Hopefully.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over John. He was in no condition for any of this. Eyes sunken, darkened. Hasn’t been sleeping or eating properly. Two weeks had passed, and yet John hadn’t left the hospital once, according to Mycroft. _Stop. Can’t think about it now._

When John’s hand entwined in Sherlock’s hair, however, and he closed his eyes as he leaned down, Sherlock’s heart started beating quickly. John kissed him, slowly. The effect was incalculable; his entire being suddenly felt drawn to him. _How can such a small touch create such an effect?_ John lightly sucked on Sherlock's lower lip, and Sherlock shivered. _Involuntary physical reaction_ , Sherlock thought. _Inconsequential_. _He doesn’t observe closely enough to notice_. Then John’s lips parted slightly, and he started to kiss Sherlock more deeply, passionately. Sherlock's lips opened further without his bidding and he started to respond. _Bugger._

John moved to sit on the bed so that he could be closer. He gripped Sherlock's hair harder, pulling his head back so that he could nip Sherlock's earlobe and kiss his jawline. Sherlock gasped as he started to feel a deep, gutteral… _alien_ need. His body was acting against his will. This experiment was quickly going awry. He should have waited until his mental faculties had fully returned.

John smiled at his reaction, then kissed him on the mouth again, with more force this time. His tongue entwined with Sherlock’s, and his hands were a vice on either side of Sherlock’s face. The raw passion, the pure emotion that poured from John’s body into his, was unmistakable-- and suddenly impossible to deny. 

In a rush, like a sudden flood, Sherlock forgot everything. Forgot the darkness that he had constantly kept around him like a shroud, that had pushed him to the needle for so many years. Forgot the fact that he was trying to keep John at a distance. Forgot that he was trying to save John from his past. There was only John. John, who had come to him in his loneliness. John, who made him eat, who watched him play violin. Who came to cases with him. John, who had brought light with him. _  
_

Sherlock finally let go. There was only the feeling of John's hands in his hair and the taste of his lips and the feel of his breath on Sherlock’s face. His very core felt like it was now connected, for the first time, to another human being.

After a few minutes, John pulled back. He smiled. "There you are," he whispered. "I knew you were in there somewhere." Sherlock had no words, for once in his life.

"And in case you need further proof... _empirical_ proof, that is… data, for the experiment." He scrutinized Sherlock's eyes. "Pupils, dilated." He put his fingers at Sherlock's throat, which caused his eyelids to flutter against his will. "Pulse, elevated." He brushed his hand against Sherlock’s cheek. “Skin, flushed.” John smiled, victorious. 

Sherlock didn't say a word. He just pulled John into another embrace.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is finally able to take Sherlock home from the hospital after his ordeal. John wants to let Sherlock rest, but Sherlock has other ideas.
> 
> Note: Rating has changed to M for Mature Johnlock content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to cloakstone69 for being a lovely beta.

 

At some point, Mycroft must have entered the room, but neither Sherlock nor John had the slightest idea until they heard a rather loud “ _ahem_ ” from the doorway.

John pulled back off the bed instantly, chuckling when he saw Sherlock’s wide eyes. He immediately attempted to flatten his disheveled hair.

Mycroft looked amused, but more than that, he looked almost… pleased. He politely failed to address what he had interrupted, and said instead, "John, you need to get some rest. No longer a request.”

"No," John said automatically. "I won't leave him, not now."  John moved towards Sherlock, and Sherlock automatically readjusted his position to be closer. John smiled, realizing that there had been a cosmic shift in the way they reacted to each other. No doubt Mycroft felt it. It was like two magnets realigning.

Mycroft cleared his throat, looking pointedly at his umbrella handle. "You are completely and utterly exhausted, John. You have barely slept in two weeks. At least take a few hours and sleep in one of the on-call rooms." 

"Please, John. You do need rest." Sherlock said, softly. The mask was completely gone. His eyes had lost the cloak of indifference and there was a new warmth. _  
_

Forgetting that Mycroft was in the room, John took Sherlock's head in his hands and kissed him deeply. Sherlock inhaled sharply in surprise, then he responded to the kiss with equal vigor. But only for a moment, before he broke away and said curtly, "John, you are about to pass out again from fatigue. Please. For me."

John sighed, and nodded. He reached up to stroke Sherlock on the cheek.  Sherlock involuntarily closed his eyes, as if he was savoring the feeling.

"Just promise you won't... go away again, ok? Physically or... the other thing," John murmured. Sherlock looked straight into his eyes and said, "Never."

John swallowed loudly and nodded before turning to follow Mycroft out of the room.

 

* * *

After being held for observation overnight, Sherlock was finally released to go home. John helped Sherlock stand up shakily from his bed, with more weakness than he had ever seen from his lithe body. He leaned against John as they walked to the taxi, and John helped him in. Once John had gotten in the other side, he pulled Sherlock to him so his head was resting on John's shoulder, and he was halfway onto John's lap. Sherlock had to bend his long legs rather awkwardly in order to make this work, but once he was settled, he let out a deep sigh. John held Sherlock with both arms, closing his eyes. He’d had a measure of anxiety throughout the hospital stay, and now they were finally going home. Sherlock was safe. Unless he relapsed again.

John's arms clenched a little more firmly around Sherlock at the thought. "John?" Sherlock said, obviously asking what had caused the reaction.

"I was just thinking about… how close I came to losing you. And whether it could happen again." 

Sherlock sat up, slowly, hesitating for a moment before taking John's hands. "John, I am so sorry," he said quietly. "I only returned to all of that because I had turned you away. You were right, I was trying to save you. From me. From the part of me that detaches from humanity and that once turned to drugs. I knew that it was latent, but that I could very well slip into darkness again with a small push. I thought you deserved someone else--someone whole, someone better."

Sherlock bowed his head slightly, closing his eyes. John's chest felt tight and he wanted to tell Sherlock how wrong he was, but he knew Sherlock was having a hard time expressing so much emotion and he shouldn't interrupt. Instead, he reached up to brush Sherlock's cheek with his fingers and rested his hand against Sherlock's neck. Sherlock regained his composure slightly, and said, "Now that I have _this_ \-- if you’ll excuse the inaccuracy of that phraseology-- there would never be a reason for me to go back. I can't keep up a pretense of indifference when it couldn't be farther from the truth. And you are the one who helped me to escape my past. Remember how I said that you are a conductor of light? I had no idea how right I was. You are what neutralizes the darkness. I see that now."

John dropped his hand. “Wait, you mean you were trying to keep me from seeing this? For how long?" 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his brow furrowing deeply. “It’s irrelevant.” 

His expression broke something inside John and he couldn’t speak for a moment. He'd had no idea that Sherlock had been pushing so much emotion aside-- not because he thought it was a weakness, but because he thought he would be keeping John from having someone “better.” Finally, he reached up to brush a curl back from Sherlock's forehead, and said softly, "Sherlock, there _is_ no one else for me. There never will be.” 

Sherlock's forehead crinkled. "You may be wrong about that. You might regret this."  _And I won't survive it_ , was the unspoken addendum.

John leaned inward, pulling Sherlock's chin upward. "Hey. I'm never going to regret this. I've never been so sure about something in my life, now that I've realized it. Okay? You're not broken. _I_ was broken, and you made me whole again. Can't you see that?"

Sherlock's eyes moved back up to meet John's, and he waited while Sherlock scrutinized him. Sherlock must have seen the truth in his expression, because he pulled John to him and they collided in the most passionate embrace they had yet shared. 

John clutched Sherlock's hair with both hands and their tongues tangled together. He couldn't think how he would ever be able to stop wanting to taste these lips, to feel this skin under his hands. To hold Sherlock, whom he had almost lost. He felt tears starting to wet his own cheeks. They both clung to each other as if they would be ripped apart again by fate at any moment. 

They were immersed in each other for several minutes, until the cabbie cleared his throat. Sherlock sprang up to a sitting position, as if he had completely forgotten that there was another person in the car. John had to stifle a laugh as Sherlock tried to regain composure, but his hair was now sticking up in all directions and his lips were slightly reddened. 

"Here you are gents," the cabbie grunted, obviously annoyed, as they pulled up to Baker Street. John jumped out and walked around, helping Sherlock to his feet and grabbing his bag with the other hand. He led Sherlock to the door, where Mrs. Hudson was already waiting.

"Oh, my dears. I've been a nervous wreck. Thank goodness you're all right, Sherlock," she said wringing her hands and closing the door behind them as John helped Sherlock inside. 

"He’s fine, Mrs. Hudson. What Sherlock needs now is some sleep," John said over his shoulder, as they walked up the stairs.

"Alright, well, I'll be here if you need anything, anything at all, my loves. I bought you some groceries, just this once, mind. I’m not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson called up after them. Since his back was to her, John rolled his eyes.

He led Sherlock to his bedroom, helping him lay down on the bed. Sherlock was still in his clothes from the hospital, so John brought a fresh shirt and pyjama bottoms over.

He hesitated. Now he would have to help Sherlock out of his clothes. If only they hadn't gotten so worked up in the car this would be a lot easier. John knew he couldn't overwhelm Sherlock-- he was still weak-- despite a new unbelievably strong urge to tackle him to the bed. Sherlock raised one eyebrow at John, obviously reading his thoughts. John rolled his eyes, and helped Sherlock pull his shirt over his head. 

John gulped at the sight of the statuesque musculature of Sherlock's bare chest, averting his eyes and busying himself with putting the shirt in the hamper. Sherlock was watching him bemusedly. John pulled the new shirt over Sherlock's head, finally hiding the pearly skin. 

He repeated the process with Sherlock's bottoms, (still avoiding looking at... everything) then pulled back the covers, tucking Sherlock in.

"Just yell if you need anything," John said, heading towards the door. 

"John," Sherlock said quietly.  John turned, walking quickly back to the bed. 

"What is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You're not going anywhere." In one swift motion, Sherlock pulled him down onto the bed and wrapped his long arms and legs around him. "I'm not letting you out of my sight," Sherlock whispered in his ear, running his nose against John's neck. John shivered. This new Sherlock would take some getting used to. It was as if, now that Sherlock had made his decision to be with John and released that part of himself, he was going full throttle. Just like he did in all areas of his life. 

"At least let me take off my jacket and shoes?" John protested. 

"Hmm. Yes, and perhaps a few more layers as well," Sherlock suggested, running his hand down John's back and up under his shirt.

"Ok, ok. Sherlock, let me up, or I won't be able to t-- oh…" Sherlock was now running his hands, still under John's shirt and jacket, around to his front. 

"You... better stop that. You just got out of the sodding hospital. You were in a coma until _yesterday_. You could barely stand upright, even with my help!"

"I feel completely adequate, John," Sherlock quipped into John’s ear, in his normal dry tone. “Besides, this kind of 'experiment' only requires a horizontal orientation.” John chuckled. He struggled out of Sherlock's arms to stand up, at which Sherlock frowned.

"I'm just taking off my jacket, shoes, and trousers. I'll stay with you, but that’s it. I think today has been quite a lot for us both to be getting on with for now." Sherlock frowned even more, and John chuckled. He turned to take off his outer layers and put them on the armchair. Once he was only in his undershirt and pants, he walked back over to the bed, yawning and rubbing his neck with his hand. Though it was still only early afternoon, he was completely exhausted. He hadn't fully realized the toll that the past two weeks had taken until now.

As John looked up, he saw Sherlock leaning against the headboard, irises almost obscured by his dilated pupils. “Get in bed, John,” he said, breathing a bit raggedly.

“What, just from taking off my jumper? I wish that was all it normally took for most people,” John joked nervously as he reached the bedisde.

Sherlock wordlessly pulled John down into his arms once more. They were facing each other now, Sherlock’s vibrant eyes looking straight into his. 

“I think we have already proven that when it comes to you, nothing about my reactions is ‘normal,’” Sherlock said softly.

He tentatively reached out a hand, feeling the hair at John’s nape between his fingertips, as John stroked Sherlock’s collarbone. It felt so... natural, as if they had been doing this for years instead of mere hours. And when Sherlock leaned in to kiss John, even the doctor within him couldn’t protest.

They kissed in an unhurried way, as if they had all the time in the world. Which, now, they did. John felt himself smile as Sherlock reached under the covers to pull John closer to him. He wrapped a long leg around John, hooking it securely. John brushed his lips over Sherlock’s eyelids. One of Sherlock’s hands slid under John’s shirt, his fingertips trailing up his spine one vertebrae at a time, and John shivered slightly at the touch. 

“Interesting,” Sherlock mused, kissing along John's jaw.

“What’s interesting?” John breathed. 

“Just a slight touch, and it has such an enormous effect. I noticed when you first kissed me in the hospital. The mind-body connection is fascinating when there is an emotional investment. But then, I don’t have anything to compare it with, no other data, so to speak.”  

He leaned in to kiss John on the mouth again, and nipped his bottom lip. John shuddered, his heart pounding. John had his hands in Sherlock’s hair, so he pulled him even closer and deepened the kiss. Suddenly, realizing something, John broke back, breathing heavily.

“Wait a second. Are you saying that you have never… been with anyone?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at him incredulously, as if this were irrelevant information. “You mean, had sex? Of course I have. Really, John. Do keep up.”

John raised an eyebrow in response.  

Sherlock laughed, which, cliche as it may be, was like the dancing of joyous bells to John’s ears. It was a sound that he had feared he would never hear again.  

“I had a few partners over the years. How else would I understand the intricacies and motivations of some crimes? I didn't seek out my prior experiences to fulfill a physical or emotional need. It was a scientific endeavour. Cause, effect. Touch here, effect there. Chemistry.” 

John stared at him, slightly perturbed. “You think of sex as a simple chemical reaction?”

“Not anymore. You are the only exception. You have always been the exception,” Sherlock said bluntly.

"Aren't those the lyrics to some sodding love ballad?" John snorted. Sherlock just stared at him blankly, and John shook his head. "Never mind."

Sherlock was about to pull John into another embrace, but he pushed Sherlock back with one hand, averting his eyes. _This is important. I need to get this out._

“So you have never had an… emotional investment, before. Not even Irene.” It wasn’t a question.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. “I respected her, John. Respected her ability to outwit me, and the fact that she played with fire-- danced with the devil, so to speak. Her abilities were completely out of my realm of experience, and therefore fascinating. The way she tried to use her sexuality to derail me was intriguing.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you seemed so heartbroken, when she ‘died.’” 

Sherlock's expression changed to confusion. “I wasn’t.”

“You were even more taciturn than before. Composed sad songs.” John shifted uncomfortably.

Sherlock’s face relaxed, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"John, are you...  _jealous_?" 

John didn't reply, accidentally making a light noise in the back of his throat when he swallowed. Sherlock sighed.

“You asked me before when I first started keeping my emotions towards you at bay. The night at the pool with Moriarty was probably the beginning, but I didn’t let it enter my full consciousness, not then. It wasn't until you were being held at gunpoint, in Irene’s flat. When the Americans were threatening to kill you. They would have gone through with the threat, I could see it in their eyes. And for the first time that I could remember, I cared more about another person’s life than about my own. True sentiment. But I knew that I could never allow anything to happen. For the first time, I found myself longing-- I suppose a better term would be 'pining'-- for what I could never have.”

John gaped at him. “Are you serious? Priorities under fire, and all that?” 

“Quite.” Sherlock closed his eyes firmly, as if trying to shut out the memory.

“So, you weren’t mourning for Irene. You were mourning… us? Before there even was an ‘us’?” 

Sherlock nodded. John felt like his heart was falling apart. _This whole time. You could have been mine this whole time._ _I almost lost you forever. You came that close to being taken from me and I never would have known._

John watched Sherlock's face, thinking.  He knew he shouldn't ask the question that was burning in his mind, but his lips started to form the words against his will. "Erm. If it was that painful, and you were that convinced that you couldn't be with me, why didn't you just 'delete' it? Delete how you felt about me?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open, fear rimming them. "N-No. I could never do that. It was what kept me from falling headfirst into complete darkness. I could never erase that." 

 _God. How was someone like you meant for me_ , John thought. He pulled Sherlock into another kiss. 

This time, it was more passionate. It was still surreal: Sherlock was his, and he was Sherlock’s. The weight of it all made him move even closer, to have as many points of contact as possible. 

Their bodies were now flush against each other. John could feel the pounding of Sherlock’s heart against his chest. He kissed down Sherlock’s throat, finally pausing to knead Sherock’s collarbone with his teeth, which made him gasp. Sherlock responded by turning John over and straddling him, pushing his shirt up. He leaned down to leave a trail of kisses down John’s chest before moving back up to plunder his mouth again. He started to move one of his hands south, under the waistline of John’s pyjamas. John was starting to go into a daze. This was going too fast, too quickly, but it was unbelievably hard to stop. 

Finally, John put his hand on Sherlock’s chest, pushing him back with some difficulty. “Sherlock, you need rest. I’m serious.” Sherlock frowned.

“You seem rather willing at this point, John,” Sherlock said pointedly. 

John snorted. “I mean it. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure that I will be just as… erm… _willing_ later.”

Sherlock sighed, but settled back on his side, still holding John in his arms.

“Alright, John. After all, we have time for many more _experiments_.”

John chuckled. He sighed, contentedly settling in. He felt Sherlock’s breath on his face, and then his lips on John’s forehead, briefly, as he drifted off. “Goodnight, John,” Sherlock whispered.

 

* * *

Sherlock woke in the predawn light. Strange. He never slept this long. He yawned, taking in the slumbering figure next to him. 

John was sleeping with his back against Sherlock’s front, and Sherlock’s arms encircled him. Sherlock carefully raised his head so he could see John’s face without disturbing him. 

John’s features were completely relaxed for the first time since Sherlock had woken from the coma. John had constantly been in a state of anxiety. Sherlock's eyes slid over his body. Circles under his eyes: sleep deprivation. Frame: leaner. Much leaner. He obviously wasn’t taking care of himself during the past two weeks. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to push the guilt aside. He felt the gentle rise and fall of John’s chest against his own, the warmth of John’s body. It was an entirely new sensation. It should have been a terrible inconvenience, uncomfortable, so much prolonged human contact. But it wasn’t. In fact, he _wanted_ to touch John, as much as possible, in every way.

John shifted slightly, then turned towards Sherlock in his sleep. Better. 

He wanted to memorize every detail of John’s face, of his body. The way his blond hair lightened slightly at the temples. His light eyelashes fluttering slightly against his cheeks. The taste of John’s lips. How the nape of his neck smelled of cheap lye soap and wool jumpers. 

There had never been anything like this. Ever. He had never let anyone else in. Never wanted to.

But now, he felt connected-- as much as any two entirely separate beings can be connected to each other-- to John. It was unscientific and messy. Difficult to categorize. But irreversible.  

He leaned in to brush John’s lips with his, lightly, just to feel them. Another detail he wanted to amass. Their kisses thus far had been impassioned, heated, and he had felt too many sensations at once. Had been unable to notice the finite details. 

John’s lips were soft, yet slightly chapped. Taste: undercurrent of tea. Sherlock ran his tongue along the top then the bottom lip, feeling the slight roughness. He felt the lips smile underneath his.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. John’s eyes were still closed, but he was grinning. “Good morning,” he murmured lazily.  “I hope you plan on waking me up that way from now on.”

“Every day,” Sherlock said softly, leaning in to kiss John again, who grinned more widely and responded this time.

Finally, John leaned back, twisting one of Sherlock's curls around his index finger. “I better brush my teeth before this continues much further.”

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock said, moving forward again. John leaned back even more. “You could use it yourself.” He smirked at Sherlock’s expression, sitting up groggily and wandering out to the bathroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Sherlock frowned. John's preoccupation with hygeine at a time like this was unsettling, mostly because he was apparently able to think about something other than... being in bed with Sherlock. Sherlock's brain, on the other hand, had seemed to switch to a sort of primitive thinking, with a single goal, single mindset. 

_John isn't in bed with me. Wrong. Must rectify._

He got up slowly. He felt much stronger, able to stand upright. He padded after John, peeking around the corner. John was in the bathroom, brush already in hand. A kind of possessiveness took hold of Sherlock, seeing the compact body before him, still mussed with sleep. The body he had held throughout the night, and on which he had left dozens of kisses and caresses the night before. He shivered, remembering. Is this how most people felt all the time? How did they ever get out of bed? How did they  _function?_

Sherlock feigned nonchalance, walking over and grabbing his own toothbrush with an affectation of disdain. He gave the toothpaste a dirty look as put some on. As he brushed, vigorously, he watched John out of the corner of his eye. 

John chortled, spit, then rinsed his mouth. “You are acting like this is a terrible inconvenience,” he said, splashing some cold water on his face. “Hygiene is somewhat important. Especially when _one_ of us has been in a coma for weeks and definitely hasn’t been able to clean his teeth. Speaking of which, you seem to be a lot stronger today.” He looked Sherlock up and down approvingly, drying his face with a towel.

Sherlock spit. “I refuse to address your insinuation,” he replied, rinsing his mouth. “But I did, incidentally, use mouthwash before leaving the hospital.”  He stood up, baring his newly-cleaned teeth in a grotesque grin. “There. And yes, I feel approximately 85% of normal strength, muscular atrophy appears to be minimal. Let’s get back to bed.”  

John rolled his eyes, but allowed Sherlock to pull him by the hand back to his room. “What about breakfast?” John whined half-heartedly. 

“After,” Sherlock said. 

John smiled. “Full throttle,” he muttered under his breath.

“Mmmm?” Sherlock said over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” John said, as they walked back into the room.

Sherlock lay down on the bed, pulling John towards him. “Are you sure you feel well enough--” John started to say, but was cut off by Sherlock’s mouth enveloping his. 

Taste: mint. Slight tingle from the toothpaste. 

Sherlock pulled John down on top of him. It immediately felt like his entire body was activated, all of his sensations heightened, his skin starting to flush. It simultaneously rendered his mind clearer, yet caused most details of the external world to shift into background focus. Curious.

 

 

* * *

The look in Sherlock’s eyes was intoxicating, so new, so completely raw. Unadulterated want. Need. _For me._

John gave himself over to it, finally. He leaned down, kissing Sherlock slowly. Sherlock was pulling him down, trying to work John’s shirt up at the same time, almost frantic in his motions. John paused, leaning back, one leg on each side of Sherlock’s hips.

"Calm down, we have plenty of time," John whispered, stroking Sherlock's chest before pulled his shirt over his head.

“I wanted to do that,” Sherlock said, frowning again. “I think you’ll have plenty of opportunities,” John replied. He leaned down again to kiss Sherlock full on the mouth. Sherlock’s warm hands slid up his back. John pushed Sherlock’s shirt up, revealing the translucent skin underneath. Sherlock had lost weight from his already-lean frame during his hospitalization, and his slight musculature was even more defined. John could see his ribs. He frowned. _I’m going to have to make him eat_ , he thought. Sherlock lifted up and John pulled his shirt off completely, throwing it aside and revealing the full glory of Sherlock’s body. Well. Maybe later.

He dipped down to nip Sherlock’s throat lightly, then down his chest and flat stomach, pausing to kiss his navel, before heading down to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He glanced up to see Sherlock, whose eyes were closed as he panted.  

John hesitated. “Sherlock,” he said. Sherlock cracked his eyes, slightly. “Are you sure you want this? Now? It’s all so fast… for me, too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting up so that John was on his lap. The morning light was slanting through the window, highlighting the golden flecks in his brilliant blue-green irises. John's breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t stand how _beautiful_ Sherlock was-- his perfect pale skin, the dark messy curls over his forehead, his vivid eyes. He held John’s head in both of his hands and their eyes locked, only inches from each other.

“Do you really need more convincing? Just _look._ Really look. Observe, for once in your life,” he said quietly. 

John looked, and what he saw made his breath catch in his throat. Sherlock’s eyes were bottomless pits of emotion, in stark contrast with his previous affected, closed-off gaze. True need. Desire. But more than that. Tenderness, almost what could be construed as… love. Love that held all the more force because Sherlock had kept himself from feeling it all this time. John had never seen that in Sherlock's eyes before.

John exhaled as he saw it. “Now you see,” Sherlock whispered. “Any words I could utter couldn’t possibly convince you of that in the same way.”

John pushed Sherlock back onto the bed. Sherlock pulled him as close as possible, as if any millimeter between them was too much. They were a tangle of limbs, tongues, everything. His whole body felt like it was singing in response to Sherlock’s every touch. This was _Sherlock_. Sherlock, who wanted _him_. His heart was beating frantically. 

As he kissed Sherlock, John ran his hand down his side, finally slipping beneath Sherlock’s waistband. John looked up briefly. "Ok?" he asked, breathless.

Sherlock nodded and pulled John down again to envelop his mouth with his. As John wrapped his hand around his cock, Sherlock shuddered, his lips breaking away from John’s. 

John pushed Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms all the way down with his other hand, leaving light kisses as he went, and Sherlock threw his head back. John moved downward until his head was level with his hands, and he was between Sherlock's spread thighs. He stroked Sherlock’s hips, feeling his pelvic bone with the tips of his fingers, under the paper-thin skin. 

John hesitated. He had never done this before with another man, but he wanted nothing more than to feel Sherlock, every part of him. He wanted to make Sherlock feel everything he had shut out for so many years. Sexuality, labels, none of it seemed to matter. Sherlock was his exception too. He always had been.

He watched Sherlock’s face as he moved one hand to the base of Sherlock's shaft and tongued the budding wetness off the top of his erection. Sherlock groaned, head still thrown back. “Oh, god, John,” he murmured, eyes closed.

John dragged his tongue along Sherlocks length, marveling at the newness of it. Sherlock was clutching the headboard behind him with one hand, the other spread over John’s head.

John grinned, and bent down to take him all the way down his throat. Sherlock bucked involuntarily. 

John didn’t release the hold he had on Sherlock’s hip with his left hand, pushing him downward. He closed his eyes, feeling the pull of Sherlock’s fingernails against his hair, his scalp, tasting the fullness under his tongue. He moved counter to the movement of Sherlock’s hips, alternating kisses with long pulls.

After a few minutes, John paused, leaning down to kiss and then nip Sherlock's inner thighs. Sherlock moaned.

“Wait... John,” Sherlock said, after a moment, breathlessly. “Wait.”

John looked up, breathing heavily. “What, Sherlock?  Don’t you like it? Bugger, sorry, I’ve never done this before...” 

Sherlock gathered himself enough to sit up on his elbows. His eyes were dark. “No, no John. I…  it’s… I just want... to feel you, at the same time. I want to be able to see you.”

John relaxed slightly, trying not to smile at the fact that Sherlock was stammering-- and that he was the cause of it. He moved up the bed until their heads were parallel again. Sherlock reached down to undo the drawstring on John’s pyjama bottoms, then, slowly, started to slide them down his hips, as if he were trying to savor it. As his hands moved down, his fingers brushed John's skin. John closed his eyes, his breathing uneven. He felt Sherlock’s hot breath against his face, and beads of sweat were starting to form on his forehead. 

Finally, he was able to kick the bottoms free. They were both completely naked, lying on their sides, facing each other. They took each other in. John ran the back of his hand across the pale skin of Sherlock’s chest and up his neck to his face, twisting it in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock trailed a hand all the way down John’s side and down over his hip. 

Looking John in the eye, Sherlock reached down, grasping John’s erection. John’s heart started beating even more wildly, if that was even possible. He reached own with his free hand to hold Sherlock at the same time, and they both leaned in to kiss as their hands started to move. 

It was unbelievable. Sherlock’s hand on him, their mouths ravenous for each other, their bare skin sliding against each other. John felt like he was feeling everything at once, and it was unbearable yet exquisite. Sherlock entwined his tongue with John’s, his hand gliding up and twisting around John’s erection at the same time with just the right amount of pressure, leaving John gasping for air.

Suddenly, Sherlock rolled over to be on top of him. “I’m close,” John managed to choke out. 

Sherlock grinned slightly, and moved down until they were touching. He took John’s left hand in his right and held it over John’s head on the pillow.

He held his other palm up to John's mouth. "Lick," he rasped. John made a strangled noise, then tounged the flat of his hand, at which Sherlock hissed.

He positioned himself so their erections were pressed against each other, holding them both in his hand for more friction, and started to move. 

“Oh god, yes,” John panted, clutching Sherlock's shoulder with one hand and starting to move his hips in rhythm. Sherlock leaned down to kiss him again, and they had so many points of contact that John felt like his whole being was starting to meld together with Sherlock’s. They started moving faster, Sherlock still holding them both, and their fingers slid against each other over John’s head until they were intertwined, fitting together perfectly.

It felt endless. John felt like he was part of everything, and time was infinite. There was nothing else, no one else. Never had been, never would be. Just Sherlock. 

Finally, John saw white and everything seemed to end and begin simultaneously. He felt like his body was falling apart, yet he had never felt so whole in his life. Sherlock fell against John's chest, panting.  

After a few moments, Sherlock’s muffled voice said, “That was…”

“Amazing,” John said, still catching his breath as Sherlock leaned back. 

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock said, smirking. John barked out a hearty laugh, and he realized that it was the first time he had laughed, _really_ laughed, since Sherlock had been hospitalized. 

Sherlock grabbed John’s pyjamas to clean them both off, kissed John once, briefly, then lay back and gathered John against his chest. They were both flushed and sticky with sweat. John could feel his heart still beating heavily. Trailing his fingers down Sherlock's arm, John realized that for the first time in his life, he was completely, irretrievably happy.

“What about you?” John mumbled into Sherlock’s neck after a few minutes, when his breath had slowed.

“Mmmm?” 

“Er, you know.”

“John, you aren’t going to ask me the proverbial ‘was it good for you’ question, are you?”

Pause. 

Sherlock sighed, kissed the drops sweat off John’s forehead, then moved down the bed so that their heads were level. “You, Doctor John Watson, were completely superb. Incomparable. Sublime. There aren’t enough adjectives in the English language, quite frankly.”

John grinned and rolled his eyes. “Oh come here, you bugger.” 

Sherlock moved closer, so that their foreheads were touching, one hand on John's cheek. “I mean it,” he said, all sarcasm gone. “I can say, empirically, that I have never experienced what it was to 'want' someone, in any sense-- in every sense-- before now.” 

John’s eyes softened. From anyone else, that would be one of the most dispassionate love speeches he had ever heard. But coming from Sherlock, it was everything.He closed his eyes as he leaned forward to envelop Sherlock's lips with his once more.

 

* * *

It was approximately 2:13 am, judging by the angle of the moonlight. John was snoring lightly under Sherlock’s arms. They had been in bed most of the day, exploring each other, except when John had insisted that they eat. Sherlock hadn't protested, for once. John needed nourishment. If Sherlock had to eat with him, so be it.

Sherlock peeked to make sure that John was truly asleep, then released him slowly and slid out of bed, putting on his dressing robe.

He walked on the soles of his feet, careful not to make any noise. Once he reached the door, he opened it slowly. It creaked. Sherlock winced, glancing back at John. He let out a slightly louder snore, shifting slightly, but remained in his slumber.

Sherlock slipped through the door and padded down the hallway into the living room. It was still mostly how they had left it, the day when he had been whisked away to the hospital.

Down to the bottle, case and syringe still on the table.

Sherlock stood for a moment and stared at the objects. They were like an evil eye, the last vestiges of his past.

He paced over, finally, putting the syringe back in its case and picking up the bottle. He turned and was about to head downstairs when he stopped short. John was standing in the doorway. 

Most of his face was still in shadow, but Sherlock could see that his eyes were wide. “Sherlock, y-you weren’t--” 

“You were meant to still be sleeping,” Sherlock said tersely.

“Once you’re not wrapped around me like a bloody furnace, it drops about thirty degrees. My shivering woke me up,” John said quietly, moving toward him. His eyes rested on the objects in Sherlock’s hands. 

“You promised, Sherlock. I can’t… I can't go through that again,” John said, stopping in his tracks, raking his hand through his hair.

“No, John, no. You don’t understand,” Sherlock said. He threw the bottle and case on his chair and strode over to John, ensconcing him in his arms. He rested his chin on John’s head.  

After a few moments, he murmured, “I was just going to get rid of them. I wanted to do it while you were asleep, to avoid this exact situation.” 

He released John and saw his face furrowed in pain, which made his throat suddenly feel like it was full of razor blades as he tried to swallow.

“I promise you, John. I will never do that to you again.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, and a few tears escaped the corners. Sherlock raised his hand again, wanting to touch John, to do anything to relieve the pain. It was so much more unbearable when he was its source. 

John held up his hand and took a step back, trying to bring himself under control. Finally, eyes still closed, John said, “You were so close to being gone forever. I felt like… I was dying, too. Like the life was slowly leaking out of you, and I was going with it. Those two weeks were the longest of my life.”

Sherlock took a step towards him, unsure of the best course of action.  “I’m sorry, John.”

John's eyes flew open. He stepped back again, his fists clenched at his sides. “That’s not good enough, don’t you understand? You can’t just say you’re sorry. Do you have _any idea_ what it was like, walking in here and seeing your unconscious body lying right on that very couch? To have the doctors tell me that it was unlikely you would ever recover? When Mycroft tried to convince me to take you off life support? To see people come in, one by one, to pay their respects? It was like you had already died. If you had... I don't know what I would have done.”  John shuddered again, and ran his hand through his hair. 

Sherlock was less than surprised. “Mycroft always did want to get rid of me,” he said dryly. 

“That’s _not_ funny,” John said, glaring at him. 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, but he became serious again, quickly. “I told you, John. The only reason I relapsed was because I thought you weren’t coming back.”

John’s mouth opened, then closed again, as if he were realizing something. “Wait. Y-you mean…” 

Sherlock bit his lip. “I thought I was _losing you_. From even being my flatmate, my friend. That you wouldn’t forgive me. To lose you completely would have destroyed me. I feared that you were gone, forever.”

“Oh, fuck. It really _was_ my fault. I should never have said those things to you. Fuck,” John said, covering his face with his hands. Sherlock walked over, peeled them off and held them.

“No, John. It was mine. I should have realized the real problem: turning you away. That was my prerogative. I thought it would be the best chance of happiness for you. And if you hadn't said those words-- well, I might not have relapsed, but we wouldn't have _this_ either. So in that respect, technically, it was the best thing you could have done.”

John looked at him for a moment, shock still lining his face. “Wait, you weren’t trying to overdose, were you? You weren’t… trying to…” 

Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “No, John. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t consider the fact that my previously-normal dose would be overwhelming for my body after so long. It wasn’t intentional.”

John was shaking his head too. “But... you're the most brilliant man I have ever known, how could you make that kind of mistake?”

Sherlock squinted his eyes shut, then opened them again, his gaze soft. “My normal mental faculties were, shall we say, suspended, with you gone. I would never do… _that._ Never leave you, knowingly.”

John gulped. He nodded, finally, and Sherlock relaxed slightly. 

After a moment, John looked down at their hands. “I couldn’t leave you, either, Sherlock. Even before ‘ _this_ ,’ as you so eloquently defined it. I would have come back to you no matter what. I was so lost, so alone before I met you. And I promised you, that day when you overdosed-- I told you I would never leave you. I meant it.”

Sherlock gazed down at him thoughtfully. “Well, then, Dr. Watson, I suppose that settles it,” he said softly. “No one is leaving. Except the syringe. Which is technically an inanimate object and therefore can't technically leave so much as--”

John snorted, and interrupted his grammatical soliloquy by pulling Sherlock down into a kiss, soft, but deep. 

After a moment, John stood back slightly, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s, closing his eyes. Sherlock felt John’s breath against his face, warm.

“I love you,” John breathed.

Sherlock inhaled sharply.

“John, I…”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” John said, running a hand through Sherlock’s curls and finally resting both his palms on either side of Sherlock’s face. “I know expressions of sentiment are not your _area_. I don't expect you to wax rhapsodic. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I know. I just had to say it.” 

Sherlock made a noise of exasperation in the back of his throat. “No, that’s not… John, look at me.” John opened his eyes, their foreheads still pressed together, so John’s cerulean eyes were only an inch from his, and Sherlock clasped both of John’s hands over his own face. 

“Those simple words are just not an adequate expression. You are everything. Cases, work, it's what I do, it's who I was-- before you came. You have so much to give, you care for so many people, in a way I never could. I don’t deserve you. But I’m selfish. Remember how I told you to look in my eyes, because mere words could not encompass what I want to say? Using only those three words is like trying to express the vastness of the Sahara by holding up one grain of sand. The infinity of the cosmos with one atom.”

He sighed, frustrated. “But due to the limitations of expression through language, there is nothing else to say. So… I love you, too. Always. Forever.”

John looked like the air had been punched out of his lungs. He tried to speak, but no words emerged.  

“John?” Sherlock murmured, his expression turning to confusion.

John let his hands slide down to Sherlock's chest. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Finally, he managed to say, “My _god_ , Sherlock. Do you always have to bloody one-up everyone on _everything_?" 

“That’s not--” Sherlock started to say, but he was cut off by John pulling him down and kissing Sherlock’s throat, his eyelids, his cheeks, the soft spot beneath his ear.

“You… glorious… brilliant… ridiculous… frustrating... beautiful... bastard,” John said, between kisses.  

Sherlock grinned. _I love you too._

 

 

END OF PART I 


End file.
